The Master of Stair 43
“Give it to me,” he repeated hoarsely.
“No,” she answered, “you have no right.”
“No right!” He half-laughed. “Do you defy me?”
Her spirit rose at his tone.
“You go too far, Sir John,” she shuddered. “Stand further away from
me,” and at the same instant she flung the letter into the fire, her
eyes flashing with anger.
“You may think what you will of the contents,” she said. “And I did—”
“You did what, madam?”
Her glance winced under his, but she answered disdainfully:
“I told the girl that these people—whoever they are—these
Macdonalds—had taken the oath.”
The Master of Stair’s face was distorted with a savagery unpleasant to
look upon; he stood motionless with his hand on his hip, gazing at her.
“I would do it again,” she said. “Why should I be loyal to your
blood-stained schemes?”
Her husband threw up his hand as if to shut out the sight of her.
“Keep away from me,” he cried. “For I know not what I may do.”
“Ah, you can do no more to me than you have done,” she answered. “You
have—”
He suddenly caught her by the arm, checking what she would have said.
“If you spy on me,” he said breathing fast, “if you blow my affairs
abroad—oh, by God, madam, you will try me beyond endurance.”
She went white and shivered, straining away.
“Let go of me,” she whispered in a terrified voice.
But his grip tightened, and as she looked up into his mad eyes, a
horror seized her.
“You want another murder on your name!” she cried.
He loosened his hold and staggered back against the wall.
“Oh, dear Heaven!” he said under his breath. “Dear Heaven—”
He put his hand to his forehead, staring at her in a wild manner.
“Ye are mad!” whispered Lady Dalrymple in awestruck tones.
“Maybe,” he answered hoarsely. “Maybe—keep away from me—take care.”
He strode away across the room and she heard the door bang heavily
behind him. She stood still a moment, then, trembling, crossed to the
desk. She thought of the contents of Tom Wharton’s letter, and smiled
in mockery at herself. There was one could do what she could not for
herself; she would write another letter in another spirit.
Scandal! What did she care for scandal now!
In a rare mood of recklessness she seated herself at the white and
silver bureau and drew out a sheet of paper. But ere her hand could
trace any of her confused thoughts the sound of the opening door
alarmed her.
In the doorway stood the Countess Peggy, surveying her with sharp green
eyes under the shade of her feathered hat.
“Weel,” she said with her usual self-possession, “I will have been
saying for some time now that I would come and see ye, and to-day I
came. But your servant will not be knowing where ye are, and so they
put me in a vast room ower dark, and I grew weary of waiting, so
started to find ye.”
Lady Dalrymple could do nothing but look at her in a dazed manner and
falter something below her breath. The Countess crossed over to her,
looking vivid, brilliant and splendid in the pale room; the winter air
had touched her cheeks with an apple-blossom red; her lithe figure
carried regally her green velvet gown and her trailing furs.
She sank onto the little settee and looked across at the white silent
woman at the bureau.
“Why, ye are ill!” she exclaimed.
“Oh, no!” said Lady Dalrymple faintly. “You must, madam, excuse me—you
startled me.”
But the sharp eyes of the Countess Peggy were not to be deceived. “What
has happened?” she demanded.
Lady Dalrymple writhed under this intrusion. She fixed her eyes on the
blank sheet of paper as if to encourage herself in an ebbing resolution.
“Madam—I assure you,” she began.
Lady Breadalbane rose and came up behind her.
“Ulrica Dalrymple, ye no’ tell the truth when ye say ye ar’na’ ill—”
The other rose desperately.
“It is naught,” she said, and drew her fichu closer round her
shoulders. “I—I—”
“I will be calling your woman or Sir John.”
“Oh, no,” was the vehement answer, “I beseech you, madam, that you will
not.”
So wild and white she looked, so desperately she trembled and clasped
her shaking hands on her bosom, that the other woman stood arrested,
staring at her. The Countess shared the common knowledge of Sir John’s
domestic affairs, and as she looked at his wife her thoughts leaped to
a swift conclusion.
“Ulrica—has he been laying hands on ye?” she asked. “Sir John, I mean.”
“No, no,” answered Lady Dalrymple desperately. “My God, no, how dare
you ask me?”
Lady Breadalbane looked at her unmoved.
“Finish your letter,” she said calmly. “I would no’ be disturbing ye.”
But the anger of Sir John’s wife had flamed up only to die out and
leave the ashes of utter misery behind.
“I will not write it,” she replied. “God forgive that I ever thought I
would.”
She sank down on the other end of the settee, too overwrought to
conceal her distress, and Lady Breadalbane’s clear eyes measured her
curiously.
There was a silence of seconds, then the Countess spoke.
“Ye are very unhappy, Ulrica Dalrymple—ye seem to have made a fine
confusion of your life—and I would tell ye that ye will no’ be
bettering it by puling and whimpering.”
Lady Dalrymple turned wild eyes to her.
“What do you know of any of it?” she asked.
“Weel, I ken somewhat,” was the composed answer. “And I’m sorry for
ye—but I dinna think that ye will improve your lord’s temper with a
gloomy face and a moping manner.”
“What do you mean?” asked Lady Dalrymple faintly.
The Countess turned to her sharply.
“Woman, woman,” she cried. “Dinna ye ken that a man likes a cheerfu’
face aboot him, and a house that is warm and well-lighted, not a great
auld barn like this, which would disconcert ony but ghosts?”
A faint flush crept into Lady Dalrymple’s face.
“And am I to give all the service? I am to supply all the gaiety, the
life, the care against his mere tolerance?”
“Yes,” was the calm answer. “It comes to about that if ye want a life
that is worth living—ye must give somewhat your side; remember he has
more on his mind than ye will ever ken.”
As she spoke the Countess lifted her eyes to a portrait over the
bureau, it was of Sir John and taken in his May of life; he wore a
cuirass and plumed hat and smiled out of the canvas, as handsome a face
as a man may have.
His wife followed the Countess’s glance.
“He is not like that now,” she said bitterly. She rose. “Did you ever
hate any one, madam?” she asked. Then, without waiting, she answered
herself. “It is terrible to hate,” she said hoarsely. “And terrible to
be hated.”
She turned wildly about and caught up the cage of bullfinches. She held
them close to her bosom.
“They eat from my hand,” she said wistfully. “I think they like me.”
Then she burst into hysterical laughter and hurried from the room, swiftly, through the folding-doors.
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